Philippe awoke at the crack of dawn to rain that had seeped through their roof.

Cursing loudly, he went to have a bath and don the best coat his father had. His father was still sleeping, and Philippe did not make an effort to wake him up. For all he cared, his father did not have to show up at the funeral.

He bundled up his mother's best black dress so she needn't travel back home just to change and made his way to his dead best friend's house.

Helene and his mother were already up when he reached there. The latter had spoken to a man and had arranged for a cart to carry Maurice's corpse to the burial ground. Maurice's one other friend—an acquaintance of Philippe's from the bar, named Armand Renaudin, had been informed about Maurice's death and was on his way.

As the sun rose that morning, the rain stopped lashing its fury at the Parisians. Oppressive heat took its place instead.

Maurice's sister was too upset to dress her brother in better clothes and cover up his wounds before burying him. So Philippe and his mother had to do it while she went to the market with Renaudin to buy some flowers. They came back with a bouquet of many button-sized flowers which she said were Maurice's favourites.

Renaudin and Philippe then set out to dig the grave, armed with shovels from their respective houses. A fresh mound of bodies had been dumped in the public graveyard after a small uprising near the National Assembly the previous day.

As Philippe dug his best friend's grave that sultry morning, sweating like the river Seine, he wanted to do nothing more than cut his nose off.

Hoping to distract himself from the awful stench, he tried to distract himself by trying to get to know his companion better. However, he discovered that Armand Renaudin didn't like talking. Any attempt by Philippe to start a conversation—whether about Rosseau or the weather—had been shut down quite abruptly.

Maman and Helene arrived with Maurice in the cart when they were almost done with the gravr. They had a mousy priest with them. They'd managed to convince him to perform the service for a fee of three livres and two loaves of bread by appealing to him in the name of the Christian spirit.

The funeral was a shoddy affair. But compared to that of the fallen monarch—whose corpse had been dumped in a corner like any other body—Maurice was buried like a king.

The body was lowered into the grave, sans coffin and grand ceremony. As the priest recited his prayers in a bland monotone, the four people that stood over Maurice Bernard's corpse said their goodbyes.

Helene's was an emotional one full of tears.

Adalene Fitzgerald merely made the gesture of a cross and said her prayers quietly. She hadn't known Maurice very long, but she had an unshakeable respect for the dead and overflowing compassion for the living.

Renaudin shed a few tears, paltry in comparison to Helene Bernard's ocean.

Philippe, unlike the others, was not vocal about his sadness. He stood stock-still, watching the proceedings with a blank expression. Emotionless.

When Philippe confided in her later, Maman said that he was feeling that way because he was so overwhelmed. However, Philippe had found his mind wandering to the moderate Girondin leaders, who would definitely face their downfall at the hands of the extremist Jacobins. He supposed that a new government would be established by the end of the year—most probably with Robespierre at the lead.

He wondered what that meant.

The funeral did not last too long. The priest finished his prayers and went home, after being reassured by Helene about being paid later. Maman, Renaudin and Philippe huddled around Helene, trying to console her as she berated the men who killed her brother, tearing her hair and beating her breasts.

After what seemed like hours, when her tears finally ran dry, it began raining. The funeral came to an abrupt end. The men hurriedly shoveled mud into the grave. The pitiful party bid farewell in haste and ran to their respective homes, drenched in the tears of the gods.

*

Philippe bid his mother adieu once he'd dropped her home after the funeral, which had happened at a pace too quick for him to process. Helene had brought up the question that all of them had forgotten about—even the police, for Maurice, was just another poor man and the investigation of his murder wouldn't earn them money or favours. But ever since Helene had asked, Philippe couldn't push it out of his mind.

Who had killed Maurice Bernard and why?

Adalene Fitzgerald and Renuadin had been quick to forget it, but Philippe could see that Helene was burning with curiosity to know the answer. To him, she seemed too weak a woman to extract revenge from the murderer. Perhaps she just desired closure. Like him.

But, the story of a lone woman whose brother had been murdered would definitely garner sympathy. Knowing Helene quite well as a child, he was almost sure that it was her motive. He remembered the time when her mother passed—she'd turned wild for some months and every mistake of hers, she blamed on the trauma of the demise. Perhaps this was a ploy. But he did not mind.

That was why he found himself at his late friend's doorstep, waiting for the latter's sister to answer his knock. It was a sultry afternoon, what with the heavy rains that morning. The air was stale and heavy; it seemed to cling to his neck like the noose that had been used to hang Maurice.

The door opened with a creak to reveal a tired Helene.

"Oh," she cried when she saw him. She tried to crack a smile but failed."It's you, Philippe! Come in."

She opened the door wide and ushered him in. The house was a mess, all sorts of men's clothing lay strewn on the ground.

"Forgive me, I was sorting Maurice's things so I could sell them," Helene muttered apologetically. He could see the look in her eyes as they ran all over the room, calculating how much money she would get for it. She grabbed a pair of tattered trousers from the back of a chair and placed it on the table. Gesturing at the chair for Philippe to sit on, she turned her gaze back to the clothes.

A single tear escaped her eye as she picked one of them up.

Philippe had intended to beat around the bush before getting to the crux, taking into consideration the fragility of the women's emotions. But he lost his patience once he took a look at her face. Her vulnerability irritated him.

"I'm here to discuss something Maman and Renaudin chose to ignore," he began. Helene wiped the tears and gazed at him, her eyes wide. She clutched at the shirt in her hand tighter.

"Yes. I wish to know who perpetrated my brother's death."

"Now that we've established this common ground, tell me everything I need to know."

"Ask, and I will try my best to help you."

"Do you know of anyone who may have nursed a grudge on your brother," Philippe asked her lightly.

She had turned his back to him and was folding a shirt. He quickly swiped a particularly nice-looking pair of black trousers behind the chair—something he would take with him when he went home. Maman wouldn't have to spend on his clothes then, he reasoned, tossing a look at the mismatched patches of brown cloth that adorned his navy blue pants.

"No, I don't," she mused.

He stood up and went over to Helene. "I'll help," he offered, holding out his hands.

"You do not have to."

"Oh, but I wish to."

Helen gave him a quick smile and pointed at the shirts that lay before them. It was a small pile, but a pile nevertheless. The five shirts that had been folded were sorted into two neat stacks. Maurice was much better off than he had been pretending to be.

"You have to fold the shirts and place them in one of these stacks. This one," she said, gesturing to the one on her left, "Is for the ones that are good enough to be sold. And the others go on this one," she continued, pointing to the stack on her right—the smaller one. "It's to be discarded. Only the ones with holes go on this."

"Alright," he replied, accepting the shirt she handed him.

Though his hands folded the shirt, his eyes were trained on the woman next to him. "Losing the money that comes from Maurice's three jobs must really come as a harsh blow," he said slowly.

"Three?" She was slightly startled. Squinting at the shirts, she replied, "Maurice worked two jobs—one at the bar and one as a stable boy."

"Forgive me," Philippe replied quietly.

"M-Maurice was right when he told me that you were a great friend," she joked, only faltering slightly when she said his name.

Philippe laughed.

She had dismissed his comment. It seemed very natural for her to assume that Philippe was the one who was mistaken. His doubt lingered, however. Something told him that she knew. Her refusal to meet his eyes, an accusation that could be explained away by claiming to be immersed in her task, somehow rang a bell.

Maurice's last words to him echoed in his head, louder than ever:

As far as you are concerned, I work two jobs only. Don't let your tongue slip or it'll be both our heads  under the blade.

Had he told his sister the same thing?

"Oh, of course. Forgive me."

For ten minutes, they folded and sorted shirts in silence. When Helene went across the room to bring the trousers, Philippe spoke.

"Do you know any of his friends who worked with him—someone who would be aware of any enmities?"

"We didn't talk too much about his friends, Maurice and I. We kept our lives to ourselves."

"So Renaudin is the only friend of Maurice's that you know, except me?"

"Yes."

"He used to work at the bar, yes?"

"Until yesterday. He is at a café called Belle de-jour now. His father woks there too, so he got a job there almost immediately upon enquiry."

"The lucky bastard," Philippe said resentfully, thinking of his struggle to find a job. It had been a week since he'd arrived at Paris, and he had had no luck.

They feel silent again. Helene occasionally made a comment about the weather, but it was nothing of importance to Philippe.

He decided that he had gotten as much out of Helene as he could for the time being. The only person who could help now would be Renaudin. He would have to get out of the house as soon as possible and talk to him.

Looking out of the window on the opposite wall, he feigned surprise.

It was nearing twilight. The sky was turning a murky grey and twittering groups of birds raced past the window at great speeds, attempting to hit the hay before the inky shadows of night slithered into the sky.

"Time has this wonderful knack of passing at the click of a finger when you least expect it to, doesn't it?" Philippe said to Helene, placing the trouser he had been folding on the table. "I need to head home, Maman will be expecting me."

"Oh, of course. Thank you so much, Philippe. For everything," she said, putting down the trousers she'd been folding. Her brown eyes were swimming with gratitude.

"It has been nothing but my pleasure," Philippe said, smiling kindly at her. "Let me put this stack by the table before I leave," he said, gesturing to the shirts that he and Helene had deemed fit to be sold.

"You are too kind," she replied.

Philippe waited until she turned away and continue folding the trousers that she'd put down. He walked over to the opposite side of the room and put the stack on the table, as he'd promised her. It was right next to the chair behind which he'd hidden the trousers. In a trice, he picked it up and threw out of the window. He smiled at her casually when she turned around.

"You take care, Helene," he said, letting himself out.

"Au Revoir," she shouted back cheerily.

Philippe ran to the window, his figure bent, hoping that Helene wouldn't suddenly want to peek out of it. He grabbed the trousers from the puddle of mud that it had fallen into, his eyes flickering to the house time and again.

He flung the trousers across his arm and turned around. On the other side of the street stood five well built-men. Soldiers, by the look of them, but dressed like peasants.

They were all staring at him intently, eyes boring into him like poisoned needles.

Bonjour!

Thank you so much for sticking around with L'appel du vide, I hope that you are enjoying the story. I'm a little on the fence with regards to how the plot is progressing, so I'd love to hear if the story is still holding your interest.

We've gained an insight into another character--Helene--in this chapter. What are your though on her?

Anyway, we hit #15 in Historical Fiction this week and this really means a lot to me. A Heartfelt thank you to each one of you lovely readers for the support and feedback you have been giving me!

And with that, I'll sign off. Au revoir!